One way
by chrysalis escapist
Summary: Two unusual cases, and Stella caught somewhere in between - Mac&Stella, with some Danny&Lindsay, Flack&Angell, Adam&Kendall, Sid, Hawkes
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the CSI:NY characters.**

**Another story that just popped into my head and demanded to be written.**

**In memory of "Moira", furry but a great friend and listener.**

The night sky is as black as the coffee he's drinking to try and keep awake. Stars are fading into its depths like grains of sugar, the struggle against the momentary lights below lost. Lights that scream out 'Look, we're alive. We're having fun.' Momentarily. Until another body shows up, at another dark corner. And people turn away from it. Thin veils of clouds flit across the firmament following the drift from high pressure to low pressure. Heat still rising from the city. From the pavement, from the artificial lights, from doors and windows opened to release the fire burning inside, inside of people.

Thin veils of mist rise from his cup, momentarily sink onto the dark liquid as he breathes onto it. Rising up again, with the heat, a vivacious dance. He breathes onto it again, watches the mist collapse into patterns running across the coffee's surface. Impossible to trace. He thinks of Stella. Effervescent, but still, he had to send her home. Not that she had made it easy for him. 'I'm okay.' and all that. In the end he had played the boss-card, and secretly he hated himself for it. He'd have preferred to have her around too, but the way things were going right now she clearly needed a rest, a time away from this place of death.

He recalls the expression on her face when they had found their latest victim, after a week of already running on fumes. Anger, frustration, sadness he could have dealt with, but the void that had crept into her eyes immediately had moved on into his heart. He couldn't bear to see it so he had turned away, and eventually he had sent her away. The void had momentarily been filled by opposition, but then she had walked out of his office, leaving it empty, taking his soul along with her.

He stirs the coffee randomly, molecules swirling around the spoon like thoughts through his head. It could pass for a morning coffee by now. Not a good time to be thinking clearly, even for him. But it might be a good time to have an inspiration. He opens one of the folders lying on his desk. He flips through it. Pictures, autopsy report, test results, witness statements, all neatly arranged. Another folder, and another, all the crimes of just one week, neatly arranged on his desk. As if they didn't bring chaos to the lives of those left behind.

Again he thinks of the body they had found. A small body, a face having grown up prematurely. In a room with no games, tears in the wallpaper and cracks in the ceiling for its only decoration. Not even signs of a struggle. And then Sid's report, a boy of twelve years had obviously died of a heart-attack. Nothing from tox to explain it, nothing from any other lab to explain it. Just nothing left of a life.

The shrill sound of his pager tears him from his thoughts.

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He arrives at one of the countless coffee shops scattered over the streets of New York thirteen minutes later. Usually not filled by a lot of people at this time of day or rather night, now it lies completely empty before him. Flack stands outside talking to Danny and Lindsay, both looking rather tousled. At least they seem to have got some sleep. Lindsay smiles at Mac as he approaches them.

"Hey," Flack greets him and begins explaining before Mac can ask, "called you too because it seems kind of an unusual case. As far as we can tell no murder, the 'body' the woman who called it in saw lying behind the counter is currently being treated in hospital. Amanda Miller, she was alone because the other girl who should have been on the shift left when she arrived, feeling sick. The blood the witness saw on her clothes seems to have been medium and low velocity coffee spatter."

"Don't worry; we've kept her uniform so you can process it. And paramedics have been told to document everything they find on her." he continues quickly seeing a certain twitch in Mac's face. "It doesn't seem to be a robbery either, all the cash is still there and the only thing that appears to be missing is a bottle of chai flavored syrup. Other than that the manager knows nothing, lucky bastard was asleep in the back." he finishes with a wry grin.

Mac's eyebrows quirk upwards. Admittedly this case sounds like a welcome change from the usual murder, manslaughter or other forms of unnatural death they usually have to deal with, but something tells him that isn't going to make matters easier. And there might have been customers who could turn up as victims any time soon.

Through the front window he watches Danny and Lindsay get to work. His reflection appears like a ghost between them. He turns away from it.

"Flack, check around if you can find any more witnesses."

"Angell's already on it, I'll join her. I have a feeling you're not going to go home either?"

Mac nods with a lopsided grin, sometimes his colleagues know him far too well. "I'll see if Ms Miller can help us with anything."

He looks through the shop window again. Danny and Lindsay stepping across the floor in a tango. Carefully measured movements concealing but teasing emotions boiling inside. His reflection staring back at him. 2D, like something is missing.

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She sits at a table, stares at the screen of her laptop, waiting, waiting. But nothing happens. She begins drumming her fingers on the table, from the edge to the screen and back. Back and forth, back and forth. She hits the keys with excessive force, still nothing, she slams it shut. Her knuckles turn white as she grips it. A grinding noise escapes from her mouth. She's trying to hold back, the energy barely contained trembling through her.

It erupts. The laptop is lifted into the air; it crashes down on the table. Again and again. She screams, her wails joining those of the material suffering at her hands. Plastic cracks, wires spill. She tears at it; tears open her hands on the sharp edges she has created.

Nobody notices.

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A click freezes another square of the linoleum floor onto a frame. Lindsay pauses for a moment, watches Danny swabbing traces from the floor behind the counter, the area she has already captured. The scent of coffee refuses to leave the air. It tickles her brain, they could have breakfast now.

"Fancy grabbing a bite when we're done here?" he says looking up.

She beams at him, "Sure, just … maybe not in a coffee shop?"

He grins, "My place?"

She nods, enforces the visible affirmative with an audible one, "Sounds good."

She turns her attention to the floor again, feeling lighter inside. They continue their attempts to separate traces of a crime scene from traces of everyday customer traffic through a place that never closes. Lindsay's not sure if they are lucky that it would have been Amanda's job to clean the floor some time during her shift, and that she didn't get around to do it.

Coffee colored footprints running into each other, impossible to tell them apart. Impossible even to tell they are footprints. Just smudges that could have been left by anything. The assumption that they are footprints based on the circumstances. Lindsay chuckles at the thought that people might have come in walking on their hands. Danny looks at her with an eyebrow raised. She shares the thought with him.

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His eyes scan the walls, habitually searching for patterns. Their color reminds him of condensed milk, a sorry compromise between the sterility of pure white and the wish to make the place a bit more comfortable. Though now he's only waiting for a witness to wake up the walls spell out memories to him, memories of people trying to pull through, of people losing the fight.

He looks down at the file he's holding, a copy of Amanda Miller's medical report in a folder the color of café au lait. No sign of an injection mark. Still, blood running through tox now. A set of small bruises has begun to form on her left wrist, but not enough to indicate that she was held down by anyone, overcome.

Maybe just a boyfriend she didn't want to talk to.

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She eases her hands from the bloodied material. For a short moment she has felt better, the physical pain overpowering the emotional one. Physical pain, throbbing through her veins, blood dripping from her hands. Plastic shards clicking onto the table. She holds her hands under cold running water, cooling down the seething pain, washing it off.

She takes the kettle and fills it. Cold water bubbling under the force of more tumbling down on it. Plugging it in, watching, waiting. Tiny bubbles beginning to form, tearing themselves from the metal bottom. Molecules dancing through the clear liquid, faster and faster. Bubbles growing bigger and bigger. Ripping through the water, bursting through its surface. She watches. Watches molecules escape from the liquid, turn into gas. Steam dancing through the air. Running hot fingers across her face.

She switches it off. The smell of coffee begins to pervade her room, brushes along shelves, clings to fabrics. She knows she shouldn't have it, it doesn't wake her anymore, it only excites her. But she feels that she needs it.

Her eyes wander over the things in her room. Stacks of books she'd thought she'd read one day. Objects placed haphazardly all across the room, battered edges, threadbare skins. Weather-beaten, out-of-order, held together only by her memories. All those things she had never really needed – but she just couldn't let go. Clinging to them like she couldn't cling to lives.

And in reality it had never meant anything at all.

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Kendall whistles as she takes the uniform from the evidence envelope to process it. She's not much of a morning person, but once she is awake she's bubbly. And thoughts of how she could tease Adam have brightened her mood.

She unfolds the light green material, scans it with her eyes that are not only sharp on evidence. A coffee stain covering the upper front. Almost as hard to wash out as a blood stain. A picture is snapped, a sample is cut from the cloth. Her whistle becomes warped as she hears familiar footsteps approach, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards.

"Good morning, Adam." she pipes.

The footsteps come to a halt. "M-morning, Kendall."

He eyes her back warily, he knows something is coming his way, he just doesn't know what. And not seeing her eyes doesn't make it easier.

"Would you like some coffee?" the tone of her voice hasn't changed.

He's sure there's a trap either way, "Erm, yeah, why not."

"Here you go." She hands him the piece of cloth with a smile that struggles to remain innocent.

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He enters the room where Amanda Miller is resting. The sleep that had been forced on her had not refreshed her. The smile she greets him with is well-practiced yet genuine.

"Ms Miller, I'm Detective Mac Taylor. We're investigating what happened in the coffee shop. How do you feel?"

The young woman runs a hand over her shining blonde hair, pulled into tight braids that join at the back of her neck. "Puzzled. Basically last thing I remember is pouring a coffee – and then I woke up here." indicating the room, "I'm sorry that I'm causing you trouble." Her sapphire-blue eyes fix on him.

His lips wrinkle into a short smile. "You're not causing us any trouble. Whoever did this to you is. But you might be able to help us. I'd like you to try and remember everything that happened in the shop during your shift, no matter how small an incident it might seem."

She nods. "I'm sorry I can't give you very good descriptions of the customers, I've never been good at describing people, and I don't really look that close anymore." she shrugs with an apologetic smile.

"That's okay; we have people who are trained to get the most out of descriptions. For now it's enough to focus on what happened."

She nods again, her eyes becoming slightly foggy as she concentrates. She tells him of an old man on crutches ordering a plain coffee. She had put it on the sideboard for him because he couldn't carry it. He had smiled his thanks. Two boys far too young to even be outside at that time had tried to order a coffee with a shot of rum. After ten minutes of discussion they had left, pulling faces at her. A young man had ordered a cappuccino and had drunk it in what had appeared to be one sip. And so on.

"There also was a woman. She wanted a latte macchiato with a shot of chai syrup. She looked so sad, but she was really nice, left a huge tip."

Mac underlines the last sentence he has written down. He looks up and indicates her wrist with his pen.

"Can you tell me what happened there?"

"Oh," Instinctively she covers the bruises with her other hand. "That … it happened on the way to work. I was a bit late, and suddenly there was this woman. She wanted to talk to me. It seemed rather urgent because she grabbed me. But I just didn't have the time. There were other people around so I suggested she talk to one of them. I hope …" she traces the bruises with her fingers, "I hope she found someone to talk to."

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Her eyes fall on the remains of her laptop. Her hands begin to shake, coffee spills. She tries to set the cup down but it clanks against the table. She grips it harder, presses her elbows into the edge of the table. Her fingers release the cup. It falls, spins like a top, spitting coffee around. She slams her fists on the table, hitting smooth surface, hitting the cup.

The pain draws hot tears, falling onto the table. Clear liquid mixing with black. Her movements slow down. The physical pain ebbs away, the pain causing tears remains. They course down her face, burning into her skin, running along scars.

She looks at the heap on her bed, covered with a duvet.

And waits.

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This was supposed to be a one-shot but somehow it just kept getting longer and longer, this seemed like a good place to stop for now…, thanks for reading and I hope you have enjoyed it so far.  
All thoughts are welcome; every review is appreciated and replied to wherever possible. They are also a great incentive to continue this or any of my other pieces :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks so much for the lovely reviews and for putting this on favorites or alerts. You've made me very happy. I hope you'll like the continuation.**** Thanks to **_**lily moonlight**_** for additional thoughts.**

**If you can handle background music while reading****, 'Breaking the silence' by Loreena McKennitt might be a good choice for this story. You can find it on YouTube.  
**

**This story has clearly developed a ****mind of its own, sorry if things I hinted at in my review replies are not happening (yet).**

6:06 am. Sunrise. That is, if you happen to have a full, ground level view of the horizon, where the sky connects smoothly with the Atlantic Ocean. Blues hazing into each other. Dim light has arrived much earlier, stealing into the streets, subdued by the glimmer and glitter of indefatigable neon it passed mostly unnoticed by humans. Plants greet the natural wavelength with a change in their metabolism. Breathing oxygen.

The sun's rays are a long way off from the street where Flack and Angell interview the handful of witnesses they have found. Flack struggles to keep his eyes open against the waterfall of words pouring down on him. For moments all he sees of Tina Ferrazzo is an ever moving mouth. He tries to catch those drops of her talking that might actually mean something in relation to the case.

He's not even sure she's really a witness or just someone who's glad to have found somebody to talk to, or an excuse for being late for work. Telling a story that might be of interest to him if it were told by someone else. He dares dart a glance away from the woman towards where Angell is standing, talking to an elderly male. She catches it with an encouraging grin.

Her full attention returns to Demetrius Wardell, the night-watch-man as he has meticulously introduced himself. And he sure has watched the night. She waits patiently as he tries to chain up words into complete sentences, fixing his eyes on some indefinite spot on the ground as if he could thus anchor his thoughts. His perception appears to be faster than his speech. Cocoa skin and mocha eyes remind her of grandparents' home comforts. An amber glow seems to surround the man and his soft voice. Conserving.

"See that light flickering over there?" he points to a lamp struggling vainly against the gloom still lingering around it like a swarm of moths. Angell nods. "Well, that happens every time someone hits it hard. It goes out, and after an hour or so it comes back like this. I called a service team a couple of times, things can happen in the dark. But they don't really have staff on emergency hours for that, after all, they said, it always heals itself."

And looking at it you could almost believe it. Drawing energy from the day rising around it, the sparkle becomes more and more steady. He tells her of a businessman entering the coffee shop with jetlag in his eyes and of a certain Italian woman, he glances over at Flack, calling her cat into the house every night at one without fail. The cat is not a very compliant one. They share a smile over it. Two boys had crossed his path, smelling of cigarettes. He had told them about the harm that comes of smoking. He doubts they will heed his advice, maybe they hadn't even listened.

"But you have to try, right?"

She agrees with a warm smile. "If it's possible for you, sir," the term of respect comes naturally facing this man, "I'd like you to come to the station later. As we're piecing the case together I'm sure there'll be more questions you can help us with."

"It'd be a pleasure, ma'am." he tips two fingers against the partial halo of hair remaining on his head as if it were the rim of a hat. "Just call me any time."

She watches him approach the corner, the feeling of one large family sneaking into her heart. She turns towards Flack, the smile lighting up her face not going unnoticed. She strolls over, waiting for him to end the conversation and the Italian woman to walk off before fully closing the distance.

He avoids her eyes for a moment, wanting the annoyance to drain from his first. But he does catch the yawn she's trying to stifle before she touches his elbow.

"Irritating encounter?" he asks.

"I was going to ask you that." she smiles, "No, mine was nice. Quite interesting actually."

He feels relieved, and allowed to moan about his own then. "I have a feeling that woman hasn't seen a thing – but she was complaining about almost everything that happened around here in the past few days, car alarms beeping randomly, flowerpots being knocked over. And I think she would like me to arrest her neighbor for being a bad cook."

"This isn't the best of neighborhoods, but it's certainly not bad either." Angell comments.

"You tell _her_ that."

"I can't believe you didn't." she gives him a mock impression of being surprised.

"Believe me, I did try." He attempts a look of hurt pride, but he can't help chuckling now, and she joins him.

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She wakes to a taste in her mouth that speaks of a bad night – but no recollection of it. No recollection either of how she got to wherever she is now. Something feels out of place. Actually, it's her body that feels out of place. Eyelids too heavy. She leaves them closed for the moment. Her limbs seem to be sleeping still, wrapped in a feeling of numbness. Warily she eases her tongue from her palate, runs it over her teeth to gather saliva and wash this taste down.

She tries to open her eyes again, succeeds only to have her gaze fall onto a wall as blank as her mind. Memories lurking on the edge of her awareness. She slips back into Hypnos' arms, falls into the hands of his three sons.

_Sheep. Baaing and gathering around her. Soft, but too many. Fencing her in. Trampling her into the green grass. Screaming with faces of people, screaming with pain. No childhood, just pain._

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"Two coffees, please."

Lindsay's head pops up behind the counter. "Oh,_ very_ funny, Flack."

He smirks. Angell next to him tries to distract from her grin with a sideways look at him and a shake of the head.

She addresses Lindsay, pointing out through the window, "See that lamp over there, that Officer Barclay is having an eye on. You might want to check that too, it seems to have been tampered with."

Lindsay nods her agreement.

"So, what are you guys up to back there?" Flack continues with implications in his voice, seeing a few spikes of blonde hair peeking over the counter.

The face of the owner of the hair comes into full view. "Oi, you know it takes one to know one." Danny retorts while tickling Lindsay in the hollow of her knee.

Hands come up defensively, "Alright, alright. We're off then. Very last chance to express any wishes."

"Okay, how about 'get out of here'." Danny shoos them.

Two fingers are waved at him, and the detectives they belong to turn to leave. Two pairs of eyes follow them out the door.

"What you wanna bet they'll have coffee now in some really nice place?" Danny tempts Lindsay.

She shoves him gently. But she sees the prospect of having breakfast with him at his nice place move into an unreachable distance. Maybe lunch.

"Say," Danny interrupts her thoughts, "shouldn't a place like this have a security camera?"

"Yeah. But they wouldn't want their customers to feel watched, kind of takes the comfort out of coffee, so …" she scans the walls, "there!" pointing at a small shelf over the side of the counter.

"I'll get the tapes from the manager." Danny offers.

He comes back not much later with a scowl.

"At least the guy had the decency to feel embarrassed because the thing hasn't been working for the past eight months." he answers Lindsay's inquiring look.

But that doesn't leave her face as she stands next to the coffee machine. "You smell something here, apart from coffee?"

He moves closer, sniffing the air. "Hm, something sweet. The syrup maybe?"

"I don't think so. That's standing on the other side. And there's something else."

They're almost cheek to cheek, intent on the area to the right of the coffee machine.

Suddenly Danny's eyebrows shoot up. "Thyme. What on earth is thyme doing in a coffee shop?"

They are face to face. Lindsay shrugs. She swabs the surface in that area, hoping that the scent is caused by something that has left other traces. She nods out the window, where Officer Barclay tries to convince a fairly large dog to use another lamppost today.

"Maybe we should take care of that before we finish in here."

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Mac happens upon a rare guest in the break room. His eyes are immediately drawn to the cup the ME is holding, a near perfect imitation of a vertebra, all the way to its bone color.

"Lovely, isn't it?" Sid says, seeing where Mac's eyes are aimed.

Images of people drinking from the skulls of their enemies come to mind, but yes, it does have a certain charm. Mac watches the ME stirring the liquid with the same precision with which he'd extract a bullet, or peel the skin off a skull. He's secretly glad Sid's preferred flavor is not rose hip tea.

"Stella gave it to me." Sid continues, "Have you heard of her? How's she doing?"

Mac has to admit that he hasn't talked to her yet. Sid nods, falling into an uncharacteristic silence, taking sips from his cup at irregular intervals.

"I can't get that case out of my head either." he finally says. "A heart attack at such an age! How was it that you knew how old the boy was?"

"Stella found a couple of pictures in the pocket of his shirt. Pictures of a boy with his birthday cake, over the years. On the back of all of them was the same name, 'Joe', and the same date of birth, the ninth of February, 1997. Adam had a look at the pictures, comparing and aging them. But at twelve years Joe shouldn't have looked the way he did." Mac shakes his head.

"Yeah. I thought he looked at least twenty. Judging by his face. Looking at the rest of his body I can confirm what you found. His heart, though …. He must have been under enormous emotional stress. He did have elevated levels of adrenalin, and very low levels of serotonin."

Mac nods, taking opportunity of the pause Sid makes to take another mouthful of tea, "Any previous injuries that could help us identify him? Or diseases that could explain his condition? A virus maybe?"

"No injuries that would single him out in any way. And if there had been a virus weakening the heart, even years ago, it would have left signs. The only signs I found were those showing that he suffered a heart attack, or rather three within the last year. I thought of having a look at his hair; thankfully the boy hadn't bothered cutting it in a while. Hawkes ran a number of tests on it, but no results. The poor thing probably didn't even ever take an aspirin."

Mac nods again. He wonders why nobody misses the boy. He doesn't want to be the harbinger of such news to any relative, or friend, but it would be helpful to have some background information. Sid finishes his tea and gets up, saying goodbye. He leaves the room swinging his cup by the handle.

Mac looks at his own cup on the table. A simple shape, but not as simple as the ones used in the cheaper coffee shops. Elegant, and the white of it just off enough so as not to be a stark contrast to his coffee, black with its two sugars. This one too a present from Stella. He smiles at how thoughtful she was, picking just those cups for Sid and him. But his smile fades as he realizes it might be that characteristic of her that now troubles her so much. He thinks that he should call her, try to talk to her. Or give her the chance to talk.

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Kendall puts the puppet up straight again, dresses it in another 'uniform', takes another cup of 'coffee' and tosses it at the innocent figure with a flick of her wrist. She takes off the makeshift uniform, holds up the picture yet again. No match. She sighs. Calculating possible patterns in her mind after the first few tries she has come to the conclusion that the coffee must have been spilled by Amanda herself, but how?

An idea creeps into her mind. But how do you get a puppet to 'pass out'? She hears footsteps behind her, the same as earlier. The same smile curls her lips.

"Adam." she whistles, "Could you help me with this? You'll get a cup of coffee if you do!"

Adam looks into the room, sees the puppet, the various stains, and draws his conclusion. Not twice in one day.

"Sorry," he smiles sweetly, "I'm busy right now. Maybe later?"

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_Every seven years the devil loads the gun. And it takes just one bullet. One bullet to tear through her heart. Through a heart that had once belonged to her. Through a heart that hers had once belonged to._

She tries to shake off the dream, but it isn't a nightmare, it's a memory. She tries to think that she had no choice. She tries to think that it was an accident. But the memory stays the same; a bullet hole, a fatal shot. Imprinted in high velocity blood spatter on her once pure soul.

She struggles to the surface, searches for conscious thoughts to drive the black ones away. But she only reaches into a miasma of shadows.

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Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed this chapter. All thoughts and comments are appreciated and replied to wherever possible. I also find them very inspiring; you can have an influence on this piece :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you so much for the wonderful reviews, and also to anyone who has put this or me on favorites or alert.**** Please continue, I always love to hear from my readers. Sorry that this is a bit late, if I continue to make any predictions in my review replies just ignore them :)**

**Disclaimer: the book I mention in here doesn't belong to me (other than as a printed copy)****.**

Single rays of early morning sunlight that have lost themselves in the maze of windows fall into her room. Some finger their way through broken plastic. She's unaware of the rosy tinge they give to the table. Unaware that their color highlights the blood drying on the table. Fragmented grey plastic lying like clouds over a sunrise. Some rays try to fall into her eyes but are deflected by lingering tears.

She thinks that she shouldn't be crying, that she can't still be crying because she has cried by far enough. Where do all these tears keep coming from? She thinks she shouldn't be crying because there are so many people in this world who are far worse off.

She thinks that she will have to pick herself up again. That as such would be okay, she has done it before. Memories well up, of her having been left out. Children around that didn't want to play with her. Only if they did something that a scapegoat might be called for later. Memories, of being pushed away when she thought she could show her feelings. So she had learned to swallow them, but there's only so much she can take, and this time it was too much. Memories of being sent away, yet again.

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Officer Barclay sighs with relief when he sees Danny and Lindsay exit the coffee shop and cross the street coming towards him. The dog doesn't seem to be an unfriendly one but it doesn't have a collar and he has no idea how to hold it back other than repeatedly stepping in its way.

"Hey boy." Lindsay addresses the furry pedestrian.

The dog looks in the direction of the new arrivals and sniffs the air. After a few moments it draws the conclusion that while like the other human they are encroaching on his territory they mean no harm. The female holds out her hand for it to sniff. It watchfully wags its tail in reply.

Lindsay keeps the dog busy while Danny snaps pictures of the lamppost, doing a full circle around it. Then he squats next to it and with a pair of tweezers eases some shavings of red paint from the silvery background. Officer Barclay gets spontaneously transferred to the CSI department. He opens evidence envelopes, holds them out for Danny and seals them. Lindsay has lured the dog a few feet away.

A glint catches Danny's eye and he bends down to pick up a shard of transparent plastic. Though he's glad of it for a moment he wonders why so many criminals are bad drivers. Maybe it's because their mind is on the crime, and not on the road that lies ahead of them. It occurs to him that this could be considered a metaphor. Still, it remains to be seen whether what he has just gathered was left by a criminal.

He completes his task and nods to Lindsay, thinking that she seems to be far more at ease with animals than with humans, and he's glad that she has let him into her life. She straightens herself and the dog takes the signal immediately. It marches to the lamppost and finally relieves itself, then trots off thinking that humans are indeed very strange.

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Flack pulls the cardboard cup from where the vending machine has just spat coffee into it. Not a very appetizing thought but he can't help the association whenever he hears that sound.

"What do you want to bet that Danny thinks we're having this some place nice?" he asks, passing the cup to Angell and pressing another button for his choice.

"That's not a fair bet, you know him much longer and better than me." She blows onto the steaming liquid to cool it down a bit before taking a sip.

Flack has to agree. And he thinks that apart from the coffee the place isn't too bad. He realizes that his impression may be biased due to the company he's been able to enjoy lately and also that he's been spending increasingly less time at the CSI building, though he'd still like to annex their break room. He wonders if the coffee would taste any better if it came in proper cups, or had the color of the cups it comes in rather than that of muddy water. He catches a frown on Angell's forehead.

"What?" he asks, "Too hot?"

She shakes her head. "Maybe we should just bring our own coffee."

"That sounds like the best idea of this month to me!" he smiles.

They walk to his desk where Angell makes room for her cup and herself by pushing a few folders together. Her eyes fall on the one that comes to lie on top. She flips through it though she already knows what's inside.

"Oh yeah," Flack says, recognizing it too, "that's a tough one." _Tougher than Stella? _he wonders.

Hard to imagine, but he has seen her crumble in that room. In that bare room of which there are now pictures in that folder. He rubs the back of his neck. Stella will be alright, he's sure of that, but until then he'd like to solve this case for her, get it out of the way so that she can come back. It occurs to him that solving the case might not be the solution to Stella's problems though.

Angell's soft voice eases him from his thoughts. "It says here the owner of the place let him live there for free. That's nice."

"Yes, though he may have done it only because he couldn't let the place anyway. Mr. Fuller, I talked to him but he couldn't tell me where the boy had come from, said he had asked at first but wasn't sure if he was understood. Apparently the boy had hardly ever said anything at all. Mr. Fuller didn't even know his name, and after a while he resorted to asking only simple questions that could be answered with a motion of the head."

Angell nods and ponders this. "So, for all we know Joe was a runaway, and we can't even be sure he was originally from this country …"

"… only that it was where he lived the last year of his life." Flack finishes the sentence for her.

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Mac ends his round of the lab in the room where he knows Hawkes will begin his shift. He puts his cup down on one of the tables and pulls his cell from his pocket, speed-dialing the number that is at the top of his list, admittedly not only for professional reasons.

After a few rings the call is directed to Stella's voicemail. No emotion audible in this digitalized version of her voice. Nothing to base his reaction on. He doesn't know what to say in this one-way conversation and presses the call end button.

He hears a clanking noise behind his back, turns just in time to see his cup spin around once before it topples over the edge of the table. It crashes to the floor.

"Oops." says a casual voice, belonging to the arm that has just pushed a box onto the table, thus causing the accident.

Mac's eyes move down to the floor where the remains of his cup lie spread out, and up again to the face of a lab-tech before it can back out of the room unidentified.

"Can't you be more careful?" Mac asks with disappointment apparent in his voice.

"Sorry." the guy shrugs, underlining this indication of his indifference with "It's just a cup. You can get a new one."

This is true, of course. And along the lines of what Stella might say. Though she would offer to buy him a new one. An offer he'd most likely decline. It _is_ just a thing. But he can't help thinking that it's in those little things that people show they care. With a sigh he takes an empty evidence envelope and bends down to brush the pieces of what used to be his favorite cup onto it. He hasn't seen Adam enter; now sitting on his heels opposite him and pushing the shards onto the envelope with a paper towel. He hasn't seen the look Adam has cast after the lab tech, either.

"Thanks." Mac says, dropping the pieces into the waste bin.

"No problem." Adam replies with a small smile.

Mac stands up and takes a look at the box. As he has expected it contains the evidence they have gathered in the case of the boy they now all refer to as Joe. He pulls the cover away and has another look at the contents. A small pile of worn-out clothes, a handful of things they had fished from his pockets, like coins, a crown cap, chewing gum. Leaning against the side of the box a folder with all the original documents, and the photos that Adam has analyzed. Mac pulls it out and opens it, leafing through.

He realizes Adam is almost through the door. "Adam. I think Hawkes will have to have another look at Joe's room. Could you accompany him?"

Adam feels overwhelmed that he's actually being asked, by the boss. Thoughts of his last 'outing' are quickly pushed to the back of his mind, this time he won't be alone, although he'd still much rather fight crime from the AV-lab. "Sure. I'll just get my stuff."

"No hurry. I'll tell Hawkes to get you when he's ready."

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Footsteps pause. When Adam hears no sound in the room he looks through the door, to see Kendall lying on the wanna-be mattress of Hawkes' old camp bed that must have been kept in some half-forgotten storeroom. He thinks of saying something about sleeping on the job, but he refrains though he knows that she would not hesitate. Instead he tiptoes away.

Kendall yawns dramatically, folding her arms over her head, elbows pointing to the ceiling. It is very tempting to do what she knows Adam must be thinking she's doing. She's coming closer to her goal but the pattern is still not right. She has tried several ways of falling. Cup in hand or cup on the desk before her, knocking it over. Aware, trying to catch herself on the way down. Unaware, just falling down, but that is hard to do because she so clearly isn't unaware. Or maybe it's the mattress that keeps her from getting it right. But she's not determined enough to try it without just yet.

With a sigh she unfolds her arms and pushes herself into a sitting position. She looks towards the door, half expecting to see Adam standing there with a huge grin on his face. But all that is standing in the door is a thermos flask. She gets up and approaches it carefully. A note is attached to its side: 'in need of the real thing?'. She smiles, recognizing Adam's handwriting. Maybe she shouldn't tease him as much. But he doesn't really seem to take it amiss. And he looks so cute when he's all embarrassed.

She's pouring herself a cup of the real thing when someone appears in the door. "Adam said you could maybe use a hand?" a casual voice says.

"Oh yes, do come in." she greets the lab tech with a smile that Adam knows very well.

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As the sun slowly climbs higher its rays find more reflective material in this city to play with. Somewhere along the way one got caught up in something and now paints a little star on the wall by her bed. She doesn't see it. She sees the shadows the things around her are beginning to cast. And the heap that still lies on her bed. Dust beginning to settle.

What has she done? Why has she done it? People will want to know. But she has acted out of a compulsion and not because it made sense. Common sense, by far not as common as you would want it to be. Maybe she cries because of that, or because of what she has done. She doesn't know. Maybe she wanted for once to be just as thoughtless and uncaring as she's felt others to be; maybe she wanted someone to care for her? Or maybe just someone to finally understand how she feels. She doesn't know. And it's too late now. What is done is done. A word slips into her mind, because of the how, 'premeditated'. She thinks that people will not understand. Just like they never have.

And the tears come again.

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Demetrius Wardell ambles down a side street. He comes to a paper skip, one of the many stops on his morning walk. He pushes up the lid and hooks it to the wall. With practiced hands he skims through the paper before him. People often lose things here. So far he has pulled three watches from the pile, all had been missed by their owners. But there are also many things not accidentally left behind. Plastic bottles and bags, old shoes, even light bulbs. But today he finds something different. At least it is paper, but still it hurts him that it was thrown away. A copy of _The Little Prince._ He dusts it with his sleeve and puts it in his bag.

He hears a cell phone ring. He looks up, no one else around, and he knows it's not his. He tilts his head to determine the origin of the sound. Then he frowns at the paper skip. The sound doesn't come from inside it but from underneath, from further underneath than he can reach. And the skip isn't going to be emptied until Monday. He makes a mental note to be back then. He knows the people taking care of that aren't too keen on receiving phone calls because of what they consider a trifle.

He saunters onwards, comes to a small flower stall he frequents every Thursday. The same girl there as usual, dark curls flowing around a cherubic face.

"Hello Venelina." he greets her.

"Good morning, Mr. Wardell." she returns the greeting with a warm smile, lowering her eyes immediately afterwards to pick out a single white carnation, the flower he buys every week.

He pays for it and thanks her in her mother tongue.

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_Water falls somewhere in the background. __A heart rests in her hand like a little bird, fluttering with every one of its breaths. She tries to lift it into flight but it can hardly lift its head. Weak, dying out here. But it would rather die in freedom than be caged in. She kisses it goodbye. A last breath, a last beat. Water falls somewhere._

She thinks she hears the sound of water boiling. Somewhere in the background. She opens her eyes again. It's easier this time, and the wall isn't as blank as it was before. Little specks of light like freckles on a face, they seem to bring it to life. One of the freckles is the shape of a star. She remembers who she is. But not where she is. Shuffling in the background. 'Mac? Is that you?' It takes her a while to realize that the sound of her voice is only in her head, hasn't left her mouth.

Is there someone in her apartment, or is she in the apartment of someone? Stella tries to speak again. Slightly more awake and alert this time she feels the obstruction against her lips. She tries to turn around, away from the wall, to see where she is. Obstructions everywhere around her. Soft, but unyielding. Like sheep.

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Thanks for reading; I hope you enjoyed this chapter. All thoughts and comments are appreciated and replied to wherever possible (i.e. when you were logged on or left an e-mail address).


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you to all those who left a review, also to **_**autumngold **_**and **_**pl**_**, sorry I couldn't send a proper reply. **

**I'm sorry I've**** left you hanging for so long; it wasn't my intention to abandon this story.**

**Many thanks to **_**lily moonlight**_** for reading part of this, valuable suggestions and repeated encouragement/pokes to continue this.**

**Once again the book mentioned in here doesn't belong to me.**

Imperceptibly slowly for humans the sun climbs further up in the sky, lowering its rays into street canyons. What is a second to the sun, to the earth; what does it care about the heartbeat of one human? It slips by like nothing.

Stella struggles against the bondage of confusion. Obstructions, soft like … what was that about sheep? Soft … so many. Screaming … pain. Like fences, cages … imprisoned. She jerks. The thread of the dream escapes her. She tries again to turn around, finds no pivot point to gather momentum. She falls back, facing the wall again. Those freckles she sees there, she frowns, what could they be? And the remnant of a star. Now a speck of light stretching, distorting, and it's gone. The freckles remain. A pattern of lights and shadows on a wall.

She thinks it can not be her wall. She studies the dappled white. Searching for a pattern, for a clue, something to evoke a memory of how she has got here. Thoughts drizzle through her mind. Fragmented grains the nuclei, gathering moisture, weight, and then they fall, but they don't make a clear picture. Raindrops, not moving anymore, dehydrated on the windowpane. Stella tries to blink the dryness from her eyes. It's pricking her eyelids. Raindrops, raindrops … tears? A sound is tickling her; she tries to focus on it, what could it be? _Somebody crying?_

Drops of something, seeming to splinter in the air. She studies the wall again. Those freckles, what kind of shadows could they be? _Raindrops?_ Where could she be? Not her place, not Mac's. His windows are clean, these don't seem to be; she can't be in hospital either. _What the hell happened? Why can't I move … and why can't I remember? _A thought jars through her like a flash – color, a smell, someone there … reaching out – and it's gone again. _What the hell happened to me?_

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Flack puts down the receiver, his eyes wandering around the room lost in thoughts. Angell watches him quietly, waiting for him to speak.

"Hawkes and Adam are going to take another look at the boy's room later." he says eventually, his hand brushing over the folder.

"Sounds like a good time for us to be talking to Mr. Fuller again." Angell states, sure that those were Flack's thoughts too.

"Yeah." he confirms, "But somehow I don't see how that's gonna make a difference."

"Well, maybe we have to ask different questions this time. Not that I think you asked the wrong ones," with a quick glance into Flack's eyes she makes sure he understands that, "but Joe died of a heart attack, maybe there wasn't anybody around to see how he died. Let's try to find the people who saw how he lived."

He stops the rotation of the pen in his hand. "Let's go."

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Demetrius Wardell strolls down a sun-streaked alley. He enjoys adapting the route of his morning walk to the course of the sun. Watching the sun's rays ripple over cobble-stone sidewalks; watching them climb down from windowsill to windowsill and light up the glass from outside. A dazzling sign of life, flitting through the air as windows are opened and closed.

The white carnation gleams softly in his hand. He turns right at the end of the alley. Homing in on another one of his daily stops. A crevasse in a wall, increasingly eroded by rainwater. But it hadn't taken centuries to form. Just one moment, one moment of another element. He takes the wilted carnation from the glass that is fitted into the gap, replaces sallow by fresh white. He lingers for a little moment, thinking back, the faded flower in his hands. Not that people seem to have learned from it, but he remembers. Thursday, a day of thunder.

He completes his round of the neighborhood, turns homeward again. The sun on his face now as the turning of the earth makes it seem to rise higher. Creating shafts of light that cut through the streets. Clouds of dust and fumes trail behind cars. He takes another side street.

Sunlight trickles into it, down brick walls. The air is filled with a warm glow. And another sound, as he approaches another dumpster. Scratching dances through the air like dust. Slowly he steps closer. There's a little change in the sound, just a little. He peeks around the dumpster and is greeted by a glimmering cloud of dust.

"Hello buddy. How's it going?" Demetrius says with a smile. The dog looks up at him and wags happily. Done with the scratching it proceeds to shake itself and sunlight twirls along fur and back up into the air. Then it turns around, takes up a piece of wood and holds it towards Demetrius expectantly. "You know what," the man says, "that's a brilliant idea."

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"Aren't we done yet?"

Kendall looks up from the picture she's been scrutinizing, her eyes the cool glow of a pond. "No, not quite."

"Okay." The lab tech shrugs into the next makeshift uniform with a heavy sigh.

"Well, you do get paid for this." Kendall says with a cheerful smile, though it is not entirely aimed at cheering him up. She would have given Adam a break by now. But this guy … it's not like Adam to be sending him just so he wouldn't have to stomach her teasing himself, so she thinks he might be here to pay for something. And she's going to make him, for as long as it takes to figure out how that pattern of stains came to be.

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"Hey Lindsay, Danny." Hawkes greets the fellow CSIs stepping out of the elevator as he passes. "I was just on my way to Mac for an update. Blood tests showed that Amanda Miller was anesthetized with halothane. What have you got?"

Danny holds up several evidence envelopes. "A lot to look at." he smirks.

"Halothane?" Lindsay ponders, "That's not normally used anymore, is it?"

"In this country, only by vets. It's still used in developing countries because of the lower cost …"

"So vets and charities are who we have to look at?" Danny sounds uncomfortable. That doesn't make sense to him. Charities are doing good, and so are vets … plus, what could either one, what could any person in the world want to steal a bottle of chai flavored syrup for? But he wants to know, that is just what he wants to know, so he wants to find the one who did this, and ask.

"And halothane is mixed with thymol to stabilize it." Lindsay's voice interrupts his thoughts.

"That's why I smelled thyme!" he exclaims.

"Uh, Danny." Hawkes looks at him with a smile, "The concentration of thymol is so low I'd be really surprised if you could smell it."

"Hey, if you can put it on pizza I can smell it!" Danny points out.

"You know that in Japan they put algae on pizza?" Lindsay wonders with a little grin.

"_What?_ You can't put that on pizza, that's … that's abuse!" Danny cries out.

Hawkes chuckles. "It's just unusual. As is thyme in a coffee shop, so we should find out what it was doing there, it might be the key to solving this case."

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"Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"No, thank you." Flack declines. But to say that they had already had some today feels wrong, remembering the cardboard taste of it.

"Well, I'm making one for myself … it helps me through the day." Mr. Fuller says a little apologetically. "So it really wouldn't be a problem …" he repeats the offer, looking from Flack to Angell.

They exchange a smile. "Thank you, that's very kind of you." Angell says.

"You can have it flavored too, if you like."

Flack and Angell exchange a look. "Do you have chai?" Flack utters.

"Yeah, sure." Mr. Fuller looks at him. "Though somehow I thought you'd prefer Irish cream." he smiles.

"Uh … eh, I do. It's just that, well … um … long story." The blush creeping into Flack's cheeks is sped up by Angell watching him with a grin.

"Don't worry about it. Your mentioning coffee flavor just triggered a memory." Angell explains.

The man nods, understanding, and something in his eyes tells her that he's had his share of memories too, and not all of them pleasant. He disappears into the kitchen and for a little while the air is filled with the sounds of a coffee shop, minus the talking. He returns, carefully carrying a tray that he then places in the middle of the table.

Flack fails to suppress a sigh of content after the first sip. "So," he begins a conversation, "how did you meet Joe?"

Mr. Fuller leans back in his armchair and looks out of the window. Flecks of memories gather in his eyes. "It was a little more than a year ago … just outside my door. Rain pouring down, gurgling in the gutters, so much rain coming down I thought the street would turn into a river. And he just stood there, rain running down along his body like it would along a tree." He stops for a moment, as if he's still unable to believe it. "I called him in of course, and eventually he came. He wouldn't enter my flat but he stayed in the hallway, and he used the towels I gave him to dry himself. I asked for his name, and then where he lived … but he only shrugged. Whatever I asked him, he only shrugged." Mr. Fuller stops again, shrugging himself. "I didn't know what to do, but once I realized that he had nowhere to live I told him that he could stay here. Maybe I shouldn't have but … if you had seen him, that look on his face, like an abandoned dog, I think you would have done the same."

Flack remains silent, he had seen the boy, and that look had become permanent. He wonders if maybe that look on the boy's face triggered something for Stella.

"Mr. Fuller, have you ever contacted the police because of Joe?" Angell asks.

"He never caused me any trouble. But I did check with the police to see if maybe he was in missing persons. Nothing." he shrugs again. "I wish I had done more to get to know him, speak to him … I should have tried to learn his language."

"Maybe it wasn't because of the language." Angell suggests, "Maybe he stopped talking because there was something he didn't want to talk about. Maybe … like that girl in The House of the Spirits" she wrinkles her nose, "in a way."

"Yeah, that makes sense." Flack says, and somehow again he feels reminded of Stella, giving him the I'm-a-big-girl-look but not talking to him, or anyone of them. "But now how do we find out what he didn't want to talk about?"

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"Anything that we know about Joe that could tell us what we are looking for?" Hawkes asks as they prepare to leave for the boy's room.

"Not really." Mac glances at the folder again, "We do know he was Caucasian," turning over a leaf, "and that like just about every other kid in this world he has fallen and cut his knee at least once." He takes a closer look at the scar that has led him to that conclusion. "And at some point in his life there was someone who cared."

Adam is almost on his toes so eager to bend closer and see what Mac has seen, learn from him, or maybe even see it himself. His eyes trace the image of the scar. "Uh, it looks smooth," a regular zigzag, "stitches?" He's hauled back to the times when he'd bruised his knees … and how they'd been left to heal. There had always been a large supply of band aid and bandages in his home but visits to the doctor were rare, lest people should think that maybe he had too many bruises.

Hawkes looks at the picture. "Yeah, stitches." he confirms. "So one question that remains to be answered is what happened that they stopped caring?"

Both Mac and Adam give him a nod.

"Let's go then and see what we can find." Hawkes makes for the door and Adam follows close behind.

Mac looks after them and with the door closing a ghostly image of him swings into view. He pushes it away, opening the door again and leaving the room.

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"You again?" Mac wonders, but smiles to underline his next words. "Not that I mind. It's just a bit unusual to see you outside the morgue again already."

"I know." Sid replies. "My creepy place is a bit quiet, not that I mind that, either."

Mac nods, though he knows that the morgue being quiet usually doesn't mean that Sid will leave it, Mac is sure the ME always finds something … creepy to pass his time there. So what brings Sid up here?

"I've tried to reach Stella but I only got her voice mail. Have you had any more luck?" The ME looks at Mac inquiringly.

Mac shakes his head in reply. "I guess I shouldn't have sent her away, huh? Or at least have encouraged her to talk."

"Maybe. But you know that if she doesn't want to talk she won't talk, whatever you do. And if she wants to talk she doesn't need encouragement." Sid points out.

"True." Mac chuckles a little. But he's still worried. What if she gets annoyed because he keeps trying? And why does he always get her voice mail? "What do you think, wouldn't she switch her cell off if she doesn't want to talk?"

"Hm." Sid ponders that for some moments. "That's a point, but maybe she's just not ready yet and doesn't want us to think that she doesn't want to talk. Let's keep trying and show her that we care."

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The dog tilts its head, contemplating what its human friend might be up to. Pushing the stick they had played with underneath a dumpster. Swinging it from left to right and back. Until there is a sound, the dog pricks its ears, one comes up a little higher than the other, gleaming eyes fix on the source of the sound.

It seems to be the sound that Demetrius has waited for, the goal of the game. The man changes the motion of the piece of wood, now gently pulling it towards him at an angle. He beams when the cellphone comes into sight. The dog steps forward to inspect the treasure. After some sniffing, for the second time today, it thinks that humans are strange. But Demetrius is happy about the discovery so it wags its tail in solidarity. Demetrius takes the cell in his hand and gets up slowly, stretching his knees carefully.

Suddenly the cell awakens, giving off vibrations that quickly turn into a ringing sound. With a surprised gasp Demetrius drops it. Hitting the ground the ring turns into a weak whimper.

"Oh dear." He looks at the little machine. "Oh dear."

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She stares at the wall. The pain eating away at her, tearing at her innards like a hungry beast. _What is left of me?_

_Cry, and you cry alone … it's not like I don't know that … understand it … I'd rather not spend time with myself like that. _

_I'm nothing._

_Alone, nobody listens … turning away … unless you hold them. Don't let them go … have to hold them somehow, somehow … make them listen … hear me, oh God, hear me. Why didn't you …_

_No, no. NO!_

Metal hisses.

_NO! Look out … LOOK OUT. "Oh God, look out, no, LOOK OUT! _

_why?_

_Mac, no, NO!!"_

Hands.

_Oh please, no. Mac …_

A body.

Her hands fly over the table, gathering remains. Plastic, porcelain. "No, Mac, please. Help me." She doesn't recognize her voice. "Help me, somebody … please. Save him!" The tears are choking her. "Save him." She's holding the shards close to her heart. "_Please."_

Feels them cutting into her, knows it's too late. Too late to hold him.

_Mac_

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I hope this was okay. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. All reviews are appreciated, and replied to where possible.

Also up now: Simon Says Snowflakes, a drabble series I'm doing together with BlueEyedAuthor under the name of The Aquarians, hope you enjoy.


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